Moan Machines

Haven’t you ever been at your wit’s end because that pesky colleague right across the corridor / sometimes-friend-sometimes-foe puts the “W” in Whining?

Constantly cribbing, their kind ensures that no one in their vicinity of a kilometer forgets that their life is the saddest, most bleak, utterly-devoid-of-rays-of-sunshine, yada yada. For them no day is perfect – it is either too hot, too cold, too wet, too dry, you name it – they are bound to nitpick.

They are the ones who sit on their despair / pity pots, but unlike the rest of us, forget to flush, leaving their lives, as well as of those around them, full of, uhmmm, muck.

Bigotry is their middle name. The higher the hemlines go, the more their blood boils. The lower the neckline, the lower is their tolerance level, though they don’t mind the odd peek. Disguising their moral indignation with conspicuous, hard-to-miss halos around their swollen heads, they are the lone, valiant warriors out to battle it out with the depraved souls, who, according to them, have infested the world, almost like a severe invasion of the dreaded bubonic plague.

Heated arguments are their forte - they can outshine / outwit any seasoned lawyer waiting for his turn in the crowded courtroom. Heaven help those poor souls who decide to axe their own feet by daring to step into a dispute with them. Silly creatures – don’t they know that the best man wins, and undoubtedly, they are the best as best can be.

Freshly-boiled milk can, within minutes, turn sour – one look from them is all it takes. Ditto for an-in-the-pink-of-health-and-bloom plant, which can wither with one scornful look from these sorts. And to think that some people still imagine that they can win a quarrel with them. Oh well, that’s what is called optimism, I guess.

They are the reason for petty people like us scurrying for cover, and all because we prefer to retain that pleasant taste in our mouths than the obnoxious, bitter one that results post a discussion with them, a discussion that is, to most parts, dominated by them. What is a common man to do otherwise? And especially when their sighs and moans are audible from miles away, they really leave us with no choice.

Day after day, such people trudge along to wage their individual wars with the world, sneer plastered fixedly on face, index finger pointing accusingly at the wicked world, perfectly-arched contemptuous eyebrow in place, lips drawn out into a half-snarl – waiting to pounce upon their next prey.

Life sure is tough for them.

God bless these gallant sorts.